


Dangerous Games

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur doesn’t like the new kid; wossname Emrys, Mervin or Mortimer or whatever. He doesn’t like Emrys and he has no idea why. The fact bothers him, and he presses at it like a new-healed scab or a loose tooth, trying to figure out why there’s that small painful itch when he touches it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Games

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [The Great Merlin Slam Fest](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/45011.html) and posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/45011.html?thread=989651#t989651). (04 January 2010)

Arthur doesn’t like the new kid; wossname Emrys, Mervin or Mortimer or whatever. He doesn’t like Emrys and he has no idea why. The fact bothers him, and he presses at it like a new-healed scab or a loose tooth, trying to figure out why there’s that small painful itch when he touches it.

It’s not that Emrys is at Camelot Academy on scholarship, though Arthur knows that’s why some of the other boys give the skinny, mop-haired kid a hard time. Lance is a scholarship student too, and he’s Arthur’s right-hand man now that they’ve agreed Lance can accept the offer of a movie date with the gorgeous Gwen of St Margaret’s School as long as he gives Arthur a detailed report of absolutely everything that happens.

It’s not that Emrys is two years younger than Arthur, either, though that certainly makes it easier to pick on him. Arthur doesn’t look out for him – it’s sink or swim here, as far as he’s concerned – but he doesn’t go out of his way to make Emrys’s life miserable, given that he has to have dinner with his father every Sunday evening and answer for whatever mayhem his friends have caused that week. He gets enough grief as it is from his fellow students for being the headmaster’s son; he doesn’t need more trouble from his father if another top student leaves CA.

Emrys is just _different_. He isn’t the only young kid in Arthur’s form, but he’s set himself apart from them. The other younger boys might not be _directly_ fagging for older students anymore – fetching things and cleaning their studies and warming their seats in the bog and the like – but they’re certainly close to it. Emrys made it perfectly clear on his first day that he wasn’t going to put up with any of that: he’d nearly broken one of Percival’s fingers, and Arthur still can’t figure out how he did it.

So he isn’t running around for the older boys, but Emrys has a job working for the cricket team, which sometimes amounts to the same thing, Arthur thinks as he surreptitiously watches Emrys collect dirty uniforms. He’s busily pretending to towel his hair dry, but Emrys clearly isn’t paying attention to him: he’s absorbed by the uniforms, picking them up one by one and scowling at them before he stuffs them into the bag for the laundry. 

Once he’s made sure that Emrys is completely dedicated to ignoring him, Arthur grows bolder, dropping the towel and letting his gaze travel from the pale nape of Emrys’s neck to the wrist bones which jut out from the too-short sleeves of his shirt. The sight makes something curl beneath Arthur’s ribcage, warm and dangerous.

“Oi! Pendragon!”

Arthur starts and whips guiltily around to see Lance leaning in the doorway. He raises an eyebrow in question and Lance rolls his eyes.

“Stop primping, Arthur. We’re starving!”

“Sod off, Du Lac,” Arthur says with a grin, pulling his shirt over his head and threading his arms through the sleeves. “Waiting builds character.”

A chorus of expletives from his teammates follows that remark, and Lance steps back out of the changing room, yelling: “We’re leaving without you, Pendragon!”

The door closes behind him, cutting off the sound from outside, and once again it’s just Emrys with him. Arthur slips his watch on and adjusts it, watching the other boy again. The room is smaller somehow, now that Lance and the other boys have buggered off to stuff their faces. Emrys’s shirt has bunched up, revealing a slender stripe of skin above his trousers when he bends over, dusky skin leading down to the barest hint of a dip, half-hidden by his jeans and the white edge of his pants. The sight makes Arthur’s breath hitch a bit in his throat, but he ignores that; it’s hunger pangs or something, maybe just the effects of a long practice.

Emrys is muttering something under his breath, quietly furious; Arthur thinks he catches the word “prat” in the hushed diatribe somewhere.

“What was that, Emrys?” Arthur asks, leaning back against the lockers behind him, still fiddling with his watch.

Emrys starts and glares at him. “Nothing.”

“It definitely sounded like something,” Arthur points out, enjoying being a bastard just for the look on Emrys’s face.

“Nothing you need to stick your nose into,” Emrys says crisply, turning away.

Arthur watches him for a moment, leaving off playing with his watch to turn his socks over and over in his hands. “You don’t like me,” he remarks, and Emrys snorts.

“Yeah, well, you don’t like me much either.”

Arthur opens his mouth to agree, perhaps enumerate exactly the ways in which he doesn’t like Emrys, then frowns. Emrys is too good at getting him off-topic; they’ve had this conversation before and it never goes much farther than where they are now.

“Why don’t you like me?” Arthur persists instead.

“What’s not to like?” Emrys snaps back. “You’re a cocky, arrogant bastard exactly like every other cocky, arrogant bastard at this school.”

“No way,” Arthur objects, indignant. “That’s not true at all.” 

“Oh, let’s see,” Merlin says, wheeling around and ticking items off on his fingers. “You’re a selfish arse. You think it’s fun to ‘forget’ things and make people run to fetch them. You can’t be bothered to even pretend to care about anyone except your friends – who are all idiots, by the way – and when anyone else tries to talk to you, you ignore them completely.”

“I don’t ignore people!” protests Arthur, but even as he says it, he feels the vague nigglings of doubt.

Merlin’s been advancing forward as he speaks; he’s barely an arms-length away from Arthur now. “Okay,” he says, his breath hissing from behind his teeth. “Let’s go down the rest of the list. Should we start with how you make my life a total and complete misery?”

“What?” Arthur remembers at the last moment to keep his voice down despite the hot flare of anger in his belly. The team might have left for supper, but any number of people could be wandering around outside the changing room. He pushes forward off the wall and comes practically nose to nose with Emrys. “I have done no such thing,” he argues. “I’ve done nothing to you, nothing at all!”

“Exactly,” Emrys says, and now Arthur is well and truly confused as well as furious.

“Listen,” he growls, “why don’t you stop being such a self-righteous prick yourself and tell me what your problem is.”

Emrys leans in. Arthur can feel his breath, damp and warm on his cheek. “You tell me what _your_ problem is,” he hisses, reaching out one long finger and poking Arthur hard in the chest. “I see you watching me; every time I turn around you’re looking at me. Whenever one of your idiot friends does something cruel you’re watching, but you never say anything, never do anything but smirk. What game are you playing, Pendragon? Thought it might be fun to stare, make the pouf even more uncomfortable?”

Arthur is breathless, hot and cold all over with something beyond anger at Emrys’s accusations. He didn’t even _know_ Emrys was... was... His fury twists uncomfortably, low and sharp below his ribs, and his breath catches in his lungs at the nerve this boy has. Before he really thinks about what rational, sensible actions might convince Emrys that his accusations are completely wrong, he grabs the front of Emrys’s shirt and swings him around, pinning him against the lockers.

“You don’t have the first clue about–” he begins, snarling, but before he can get any further he accidentally presses against Emrys’s leg and his brain derails completely. Scarlet with humiliation, he jerks back, but it’s too late: both he and Emrys are more than aware of his arousal. His anger twists again and turns sour, making him feel sick.

“That isn’t... I’m not...” he says, fumbling; how the hell is he supposed to patch _this_ up so Emrys doesn’t go spreading rumours all over the academy? “It doesn’t mean anything,” he finally manages to snarl.

Emrys gives him a thin, humourless smile. “Are you sure about that?” he asks, and there’s a challenge in his voice. Arthur looks down before he can help himself, catches sight of the matching tent in Emrys’s trousers. He swallows.

“I’m not _gay_ ,” he says, feeling trapped, his voice harsh with the frustration tightening his throat. He’s been so good about this, so careful to steer away from dangerous thoughts, to protect himself, and now his own body has betrayed him.

“No?” Emrys says, and without warning he reaches down and grabs Arthur, his hand hot as he presses down just enough for Arthur’s brain to short-circuit again. “Feels like pretty hard evidence to me.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur snaps, and Emrys raises one eyebrow. Arthur can feel the blood thrumming in his veins, hot and fierce, and he wants to rip the smirk off of Emrys’s face, make him just as angry and ashamed and fucking horny as Arthur is.

“Is that an offer?” asks Emrys, his voice low and angry, dangerous, looking as if he’d like nothing better than to hit back, to pound Arthur into the cement floor...

Arthur reels at that, rips his mind forcefully away from the accidental innuendo, but not before his mind presents him with a searing vision of the two of them tangled together, all sharp edges and teeth and naked skin, and he makes a strangled noise and launches himself at Emrys.

He means to punch, to kick, to slam Emrys’s face into the wall or the floor or the bench until Emrys is bloodied and bruised and no longer taunting Arthur with everything Arthur can’t let himself have, but somewhere along the line things go wrong. He still has Emrys up against the lockers, still has both of Emrys’s pale wrists pinned back with one hand, holding him fast, but he’s overstepped, he’s too close, and Emrys is hard and hot, pressed against him, trapped between Arthur and the lockers.

Arthur jerks in surprise, and has to bite down hard on his tongue to keep from giving a choked kind of groan when the motion sends heat flashing up his spine. This shouldn’t feel good. He shouldn’t want to roll his hips again to see if he can make Emrys throw his head back and moan, shouldn’t want to press in closer and close his teeth over Emrys’s bottom lip, tug and take until Emrys gives him something back.

“Still not gay?” Emrys bites out, but it comes out breathy, and his eyes are wide. 

“Shut up,” Arthur growls, and bends his head, squeezing his eyes shut and wondering if that will make this all go away, make Emrys disappear. It doesn’t work, and when Emrys shifts – he must be uncomfortable, with Arthur pressing his wrists hard into the cold metal of the lockers – and brushes their groins together again, making Arthur’s eyes nearly roll back in his head, Arthur gives up. 

He braces his free hand by Emrys’s shoulder and thrusts forward, and god, it feels good, too good. Emrys makes a strangled noise, and Arthur glares at him. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he repeats, unable to help the way his voice trembles and cracks when Emrys rolls his own hips forward.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, highness,” Emrys grits out, straining as he tries to pull his hands free. Arthur just tightens his grip and bares his teeth in a snarl. They’re both breathing too fast now, too loud as they rut against each other, quiet gasps echoing off the bare walls. It isn’t soft or gentle, isn’t like anything Arthur’s done before – not that he’s had much experience, no matter how much he embellishes his stories when he tells Owain and Leon about Sophia. Arthur’s cock is throbbing in his trousers, rubbing painfully against the constricting cloth, and Emrys’s hip is digging uncomfortably into him, but he doesn’t want to stop.

Emrys has dropped his head down, and his breath is puffing hot against Arthur’s neck, making Arthur shiver; Arthur retaliates by driving his hips forward faster, more insistently, trying to lose himself in the pleasure he can feel building up low in his gut. There are sparks fizzing out along his limbs, flaring up just beneath his skin, and he shivers at the feeling before he can help it. He can feel his orgasm closing in, the world narrowing down to just this, just friction and the way Emrys is moving against him, and he sucks his lower lip in between his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to hold out. He isn’t going to come first, refuses to let Emrys beat him at this game.

It’s all a moot point when Emrys fucking _bites his ear_ , clamping his teeth hard down on Arthur’s earlobe. Arthur gives a stifled yell before he can help it and shudders, a full-body shiver that starts at the base of his spine, and he’s coming in a hazy wave of pleasure, hot and wet and uncomfortable as the bliss fades away.

Emrys is smirking unbearably, and Arthur doesn’t really think before shoving his free hand down Emrys’s trousers, determined to make him pay. Emrys’s jaw drops and his eyes roll back a little, and before Arthur can do much more than register that he’s _touching someone else’s cock_ Emrys is groaning and Arthur’s hand is very suddenly wet.

He pulls his hand back out of Emrys’s trousers gingerly, and just as gingerly steps away from the wall, letting go of Emrys and wincing a little at the stickiness in his own trousers. His towel is still lying out; he grabs it and wipes his hand off thoroughly, trying not to think about what he’s cleaning off himself.

“Emrys,” he says, carefully not looking up. “We’re never talking about this. If I find out you so much as breathed a _word_ about it to anyone, I will make your life a living hell.”

“Merlin.” Emrys’s voice is a little shaky, but there’s something determined underneath.

Arthur nearly throws the towel down before stopping himself and folding it instead. It’s something to do with his hands, lets him avoid looking at Emrys. “What?”

“It’s Merlin. My name.”

Arthur forgets that he isn’t looking at Emrys and glares instead. “That’s wonderful, Emrys. I don’t care.” What the hell does Emrys think he’s doing? They’re not going to be chums; getting off together does not qualify as an instant friendship starter.

Merlin – _Emrys_ , damn it – crosses his arms and leans back against the lockers. Arthur tries hard not to stare at his mouth, lips red where he’d bitten them. “Meet me in the library tonight. There’s a door half-hidden behind the awful statue on the side of the building; it’s never locked.”

Arthur gapes a moment too long, completely flummoxed by the sheer nerve Emrys has for even asking, and Emrys pushes himself off of the wall, brushing by Arthur to pick his bag of uniforms up off the floor. “What the hell?” Arthur manages finally. “You’re completely mad if you think this is ever happening again. Just keep your bloody mouth shut and maybe I won’t punch all your teeth out.”

Emrys throws an indecipherable look over his shoulder as he opens the door. “An hour after curfew. You aren’t man enough to show, we don’t talk about this ever again. If you are...” He lets the thought trail off, giving Arthur a small, dark smile before slipping out of the room.

Arthur sputters, but the door swings shut behind Emrys – Merlin – whoever – before he can get in a parting remark. Instead he settles for kicking the door of his locker shut hard, taking a mean kind of satisfaction in the crashing sound it makes before yanking it open it again and digging an old pair of jeans out, wrinkled and a little ripe from sitting in here for ages. He changes quickly, stuffing his ruined boxers into the very bottom of his kit bag. Of course he won’t meet Emrys tonight; there’s no reason to. Emrys can sit around all by his pathetic self in the library, because Arthur has no intention of showing up. As if he’d ever do something like this again – it was an aberration, just normal teenage experimentation or something, never to be repeated.

He’s slinging his kit bag over his shoulder when the thought strikes him that maybe he can get even with Emrys if he goes. He won’t be as easily caught off guard this time, and he’s pretty sure that with some quick thinking he can get Emrys to come _much_ more quickly than him this time. This time, he’ll win, and it’ll be Emrys who has to walk back to his room with shamefully sticky trousers. 

He doesn’t stop to think that maybe, just with that thought, he’s already lost.


End file.
